Don't Let Me Go
by mychocostar
Summary: Bella, a seventeen-year-old misfit, friendless and without a single family member, moves to Forks in order to take a job as a waitress with an uncle, the only family she knows. On her first day at work, she encounters Jacob, who (somehow unwillingly) saves her from disaster. At Forks high school, she not only sees Jacob again, but Edward, a somehow familiar person...


It all comes from a dream. It is a memory from long ago, blanketed by the rain falling softly on the leaves, the clouds rolling lazily by, and the pretty voice of a girl singing a tune into my ear. She has beautiful brunette hair that falls down her shoulders, covering her pale skin. Pale, but beautiful and illuminating, all the same. She smiles at me, and I know that everything is going to be okay, because it is her, and I would trust her with my life.

"Bella," she whispers, "Bella, wake up. You're going to freeze to death."

I open my mouth to say something but no sounds come out.

"Bella," she says again, "you have to wake up. He's coming."

And this is how the dream ends. As always. And when I wake up, I am not in her warm arms, blanketed by the rolling clouds, the peaceful sound of falling raindrops. No. Instead, I find myself in a small office full of telephones, and a dozen girls around me, all chattering away into their personal landlines. Next to me, in booth 9, Debbie is painting her fingernails.

"Yes, Mrs. Schruber. I promise you. No, I don't think he's cheating on you—women's underwear? Well, how do you know he didn't buy that for you? It's nearing Valentine's day, after all…" she looks at me and frowns, bringing her finger across her throat. _Kill me, _she mouths.

I look at the clock. 12:08. He's eight minutes late. And then, like clockwork, the phone rings. I hesitate, wondering if I should pick it up, if I should put myself through it all. After all, I know exactly how it's going to go—he'll ask me a question that I can't answer, and then he'll say something about a murder, cry for a while, then hang up. It's always like that.

But I reach for the phone anyway, because it's my job. And because I feel sorry for the guy. Whatever's bothering him, he calls everyday at noon, and says the exact same speech as if it's some sort of ritual. Except today, he's eight minutes late.

"Hello?" I say over the phone.

Debbie, who sees me pick up the phone, mouths _is it the creep? _I nod. She rolls her eyes, and continues calming Mrs. Schruber's nerves.

"She lied…" comes the voice from the other end of the line.

"Who did?" I ask.

"How could she lie? She knew…she had to know…"

"What did she know?" I say, even though I know the answer.

"She was…she was using me. Was that it? None of it was real—"

And at this point, I would have usually said, 'what wasn't real?' But today, on account of the dream I had, I'm feeling a little playful. So instead of asking him the regular questions, I say something else instead. "You're right. It was all a lie."

Debbie, who has been casually listening to my conversation, raises her eyebrows at the divergence of my speech. On the other side of the line, the voice breathes quietly.

"It was all a lie," I repeat, "so get over it. It wasn't worth it. I'm just a liar—now live your life, for God's sake."

I wait for an answer. For a very long time, the voice remains silent. I'm starting to get a little antsy, thinking that perhaps I should have stuck to my regular routine.

"I believed you," he says. "I told you everything. I would have—even after I knew what you were, I would have—done—" and then comes the most devastatingly sad pause, "—but you left. With _him_."

And then, for no reason at all, I feel the sudden urge to help this guy. He reminds me of myself. Lonely, desperate, searching for something. And, after all, this is my last week working here. I might never get to talk to him again.

"I'm sorry," I say.

"What?"

"I'm sorry I left you."

By now, Debbie has completely forgotten about Mrs. Schruber, and is staring open-mouthed at my direction.

"You're apologizing to me?" the voice asks.

"Yes," I say. I feel bad for the guy. "But you're better off without me. So you should just move on."

After a while, I hear a small chuckle. The voice, surprisingly, is laughing. It is not the serious, gloomy voice that I have so been used to; it almost sounds charming.

"You're right," he says. "She was a bitch anyway."

"By the way," I say, suddenly feeling overgenerous, "I won't be around anymore. I'm leaving. In case you call next week, and someone else picks up. Don't freak them out, okay?"

"What do you mean you're leaving?" he says.

"Well, you don't expect me to spend my whole life working at a telephone help-line, do you?"

"Where are you going?"

I don't have to tell him. In fact, we are advised never to share personal information with our clients. But, for some reason, I felt close to the guy. I'd talked to him every single day for the past two months.

"Forks," I say. "You probably haven't heard of it—"

"I know Forks."

"Well, yeah. I've got a job there. I'm pretty excited about it. And I get to go back to school."

By now Debbie is glaring at me. _You're the phone counselor, not him,_ she mouths.

"So…" he says, his voice somehow different, not the sad, pitiful guy I'd talked to for the last two months, but somehow alluring, full of curiosity. "Can I ask you something?"

"Why not," I say.

"What's your name?"

"I…" For a second I'm about to tell him my name, but then I stop. There's something about his voice that's so luring, I feel like I could tell him anything. "Tell me yours first."

He laughs softly. "Alright," he says. "My name is Edward. And yours?"

"Isabella," I say, giving him my full name. I always feel safer giving strangers my full name, since I never go by it. The only ever person who's ever called me Isabella was the wretched aunt I'd lived with when I was in middle school.

"Bella," he says, calling my name as if he'd already known my name before. "Thanks for the past two months…I hope you have a wonderful time at Forks."

Debbie, who has hung up on Mrs. Schruber, is now approaching my stall. I imagine she's going to scold me about the conducts I've broken today.

"Thanks," I say, thinking how odd it is that the person I'd talked to for the past two months—that pitiful person who muttered nonsense about some girl who'd left him—could have changed so much in the matter of minutes.

And then Debbie taps my shoulder, and I hang up the phone.


End file.
